


Six Hours

by frankenberger



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, But heaps of moaning groaning and grunting, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hannibal actually swears, M/M, Masturbation, Murder Husbands, Not a lot of talking, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Rimming, Will spends a lot of his time naked, mentions of anal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:58:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5713468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankenberger/pseuds/frankenberger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter have spent four long weeks in each other's company as they recovered from their injuries.</p><p>Now that Hannibal is home alone, he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Hours

Six hours. Six whole hours. He glances at the clock on the mantelpiece and regrets it instantly. Better to exist outside of time, to hang in limbo. The only thing more excruciating than the waiting is the stark realisation of just how much it is affecting him to be alone. In the beginning it was difficult, now it is close to intolerable. He doesn't know how much longer he can wait. 

He breathes out a long and pained sigh as he returns to pacing before the fireplace, barely glancing at the glowing coals of the fire even as the logs crackle and spit out sparks in his direction. The book he had been reading this morning sits forgotten on an armchair, his sketchbook and charcoals freshly abandoned on the coffee table. Outside, the wind blows flurries of snow that eddy and swirl against the frosted windows. Six hours.

_How much longer?_

***

Hannibal had tried to take a nap after two hours alone in the house, restless and frustrated by the absence of touch. It was a hollow feeling in his stomach and a maddening itch beneath his skin. He lay down on the rumpled sheets of the unmade bed with hands folded across his stomach, and managed to fall into a brief and fitful sleep. When his consciousness returned, all too soon, he found himself curled face-down on the opposite side of the bed. Groaning into Will's pillow, breathing in the scent of dark curls, herbal shampoo and the tang of sex sweat. He was hard and aching in his boxer briefs, tangling his feet in the sheets and rutting desperately against the mattress. As if he could somehow conjure the other man's body from thin air using his scent alone.

Hand trapped between his body and the bed, he ground the heel of his palm into his erection, chafing against the thin cloth. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine the sound of Will's voice. The way he would whisper Hannibal's name like a curse or a prayer as they lay together in the darkness. His breathy little moans as he was engulfed by Hannibal's hand, his hungry mouth. His low and guttural grunt as he came, spilling his bitter and salty essence for Hannibal to savour and swallow. 

As sleep receded and self-awareness returned, Hannibal found himself ashamed of his desperation and the loss of his finely honed control. The part of his brain that unerringly sought pleasure was panting for release, but he was still clear-headed enough to concede to rationality. He eased himself off the bed gingerly, forcing himself away from the lingering scent of Will.

He thought that a shower might help to regain his sense of calm, but it was a doomed errand. Unbidden, the Will of his memory was there, peeking through a cloud of imagined steam as Hannibal entered the bathroom. _Come on in,_ he had said, his eyes shining with a playful glint and his hair plastered flat by the hot water. When Hannibal had hesitated, Will had opened the shower door further to tempt him. Hannibal's eyes had followed the rivulets of water that cascaded down Will's naked body. Tracing his collarbone and the planes of his chest, along the pink line of scar that curved across his flat belly and finally down to his soft but sizeable cock. Hannibal had been unable to resist such a beautiful invitation. He remembered the feel of his lips tickling across the skin at the back of Will's neck as he turned him around, wrapping his arm around the soap-slippery waist of the other man. He remembered Will's gasp of revelation as Hannibal pushed inside him, thrusting slow and deep as they clung to one another underneath the spray.

Hannibal's mind recalled every detail with such alacrity that even the cool water was unable to dampen his arousal. Alone in the shower, he braced one forearm against the wall as he took himself in hand and tugged with frantic strokes, unable to stop or think until he reached his shuddering climax.

An hour and a half had passed since Hannibal had tried to get some sleep. Three and a half hours, since Will had gone. Only three and a half hours.

_Oh, how much longer?_

***

Clean and dressed, he felt no less filthy than he had before his shower. He was barely able to register genuine hunger in his current state, but he hoped that the comfortable, meticulous habits of cooking might distract his mind from the all-encompassing craving for carnality. Ensconced in the cosy kitchen of the small house, rolling up his shirtsleeves as he set out his mise en place, he almost felt normal again. As he worked, he became aware of a strangeness, an unfamiliar echo at the tail of every sound. The light tap-tap-tap of his knife against the chopping board, the ringing contact of the whisk against the metal bowl, even the hiss of the pan as he sautéed the onions. He had lived alone for many years in a house far larger than this, but he couldn't help but feel that this place was too cavernous for only one. Will's unassuming presence and his quiet breath had filled the open space. Now that he was alone, Hannibal rattled around like a seed in a hollow gourd.

There was no fresh meat in the house, and their pantry was devoid of all but the most basic of provisions. Even if it lacked the usual extravagance in presentation, he should have been pleased with the Tortilla Espanola he had prepared. The savoury aroma was enticing and rich with spices, chorizo and onions, but he pushed the dish away after only a few bites. Was this lovesickness? Was he pining? He had never before been subject to such hackneyed displays of emotion, so he wasn't entirely sure. This feeling of helplessness frustrated him, and the smell of the food, all of a sudden, overwhelmed him.

In his mind, a ghostlike Will sat at the table across from Hannibal, grinning around a mouthful of his breakfast as they talked. He always had a tendency to slouch over his food like a poor child for whom every meal was a hard-won battle, or, possibly more apt, like a dog jealously guarding its bowl. In contradiction to these images, he only slouched when he felt comfortable, sitting instead with perfect posture at formal meals. While they recuperated here together there had been no reason for formality. The shade of Will that was inextricably imprinted on this room only smiled as he curled over his plate, enjoying the food and the company. He had reached across the table and Hannibal took his hand, lacing their fingers together. Hannibal could feel the fading but noticeable calluses on Will's fingertips, his palms, relics of physical labour and outdoor pursuits, fixing motors and fishing. Hannibal loved the feel of these hands, craved the gentle brush of the roughened skin against his body. As Hannibal's gaze grew distant, Will gave him a questioning glance. Hannibal answered by rubbing his thumb in a gentle circle on Will's palm, and speaking only four words, soft voiced. _Come back to bed._

The house was too empty, and the bed was cold. With an ache in his chest, Hannibal trudged to the kitchen with his mostly uneaten meal, trying to convince himself that he just hadn't been hungry after all.

Five hours had passed. Outside, the light of the day faded as the snow began to fall.

***

Hannibal settled by the fireplace, five and a half hours deep in what was surely some twisted version of Hell. He busied himself with a study in charcoal, trying to capture the angle of Will's jaw relaxed in nightmare-free sleep, the slight upward tilt of the corners of his lips, sated and smiling in dreams. The dark, raised flesh of the fresh scar on his upturned cheek, part of him and therefore beautiful. Will preferred to sleep clothed in soft cotton t-shirts and boxer shorts but Hannibal treasured these moments the most, bare and languid in the afterglow. Sweat cooling on their skin, the musk of sex hanging heavy in the air. His sketch was close, but nowhere near perfect. There was something in the curl of Will's hand as it draped over his body or the fan of his eyelashes across his cheek. Something unnatural or unreal, something lacking. He was gifted with the ability to recognise the faults of his work, but tormented with the knowledge that he didn't have enough raw material to put it right. He needed more time to study every facet of Will's body, every angle. There were too many things already lost to him. 

In the drawing, the dark tuft of hair under Will's armpit seemed as soft as he knew it to be, but he found himself unable to recall the scent of him there. Hannibal's mind kept returning to more familiar territory, the smell of the terrible aftershave Will used to wear. Flooding his senses as he sat in the Uffizi gallery, staring at La Primavera and aching from the injuries dealt to him by Jack Crawford. Wafting across his consciousness in his plexiglass cell at the hospital, almost bringing tears to his eyes as he turned, daring to hope. He had not worn this aftershave in the month they had lived here together, but the association was inescapable. Hannibal wanted more time to smell, to lick and taste, to drown out the bitter alcohol tang and replace it with the more primal, present scents of Will and everything he represented. Freedom and the promise of happiness, rather than the despair of the past.

He threw the half-finished drawing down with a small noise of disgust, rubbing at his eyes with charcoal-stained fingertips.

Almost six hours. There was a fear behind his frustration, as yet unvoiced.

_What if he doesn't come back?_

***

Hannibal stares angrily into the glowing coals of the fire, unsure what else to do. He feels as if his body is filled with a million shards, fragments of glass that pierce his organs and pulverise his flesh from the inside, rubbing and grating against one another if he moves, breathes or thinks.

He knows this is ridiculous, deep down, but knows also he is too far gone to recover. He has spent his life essentially happy with his own company, a necessary prerequisite for a man of anti-social pursuits. Now he has spent four weeks in constant contact with another, and it has broken him.

Six hours have passed since Will Graham left the house, and these have been six hours too many. He could try to eat again, but he wouldn't be able to stomach it. He could try to sleep, but there could never be rest without Will by his side. He could take another shower, but...

There is a sound. A distant booming that emerges from the wind. A steady crunch, crunch of footsteps in the freshly-fallen snow.

Hannibal swears that he can smell him before he has even opened the door, but surely this is the product of his fevered imagination. Terrified that it is only a hallucination but exhilarated as if he is in free-fall, Hannibal rushes headlong to the front door as it opens before him.

Will steps in out of the cold to find himself almost instantly pinned to the wall. Before he is able to speak, lips are crushed to wind-chapped lips, stealing his breath. Shaking hands paw at his coat, desperate to reach the warmth of his body inside. His groan is muted, swallowed greedily from his mouth as Hannibal kisses him. Stubble scrapes against stubble in a tactile cacophony.

Will wrenches his hands free to tear off his thick winter gloves and Hannibal moans as the clammy fingers wind around into his hair, seeking the warmth at the nape of his neck. The chill sends a shiver through his body and he doesn't want it to stop, doesn't want to lose the moment but there is too much clothing between them. He shakes Will loose to drag the heavy coat from his shoulders, to cast his scarf to the floor.

Hannibal surges against him, pressing his face to the curve of Will's throat, tongue darting out to lick at his pulse, the heat that throbs just beneath the surface of his skin. The smell of wool and trapped perspiration, and the taste of salt. The elusive sensory impressions that are so wholly, quintessentially Will. He needs more. He wants to wallow in it.

Will makes a small sound of protest as he feels Hannibal's hands slide into the back of his jeans, ghosting over his sweat-damp cleft to grasp his cheeks firmly and possessively. The motion drags them closer and pulls the rough denim taut over Will's groin, his length already half-hard from the sudden onslaught, feeding off Hannibal's hunger and his own. He opens his mouth to form words, but Hannibal won't allow it, kissing him into silence with ferocious tongue and teeth that drag across his lip. Speech can only lead to objections and rationalisations, to the dampening down of the fervour that seizes them. Hannibal has heard more than enough of Will speaking, enough to fill his dreams for a lifetime. He longs to elicit sounds of a more esoteric variety, moans or pleas, shrieks or screams. Even the rapid rhythm of Will's exhalations is a tune he will store away for later use. 

Perhaps Will is only objecting to the location. This is a situation happily remedied, as the wall beside the front door hardly gives enough room for a satisfactory exploration. With a growl, Hannibal leans in to graze the shell of Will's ear with his teeth and speaks two words. "Bedroom, now." Will knows it is a command rather than a request, and after only a moment's hesitation he accedes wordlessly.

Along the lust-blurred path to the bedroom, Will kicks off his boots and peels the woollen socks from his feet. His sweater is discarded at the threshold of the room, his tight t-shirt practically torn from his shoulders as they tumble together onto the bed. Will reaches out to fumble with the buttons on Hannibal's shirt and is answered with the grip of strong hands pressing his forearms to the rumpled sheets beneath them. There will be time enough to feel the hot, sweet press of Will's body against his, but there are other senses that take precedence. Will's maddening scent, so pure and vital, is spread out before him like a buffet. 

He dives in head-first, trailing kisses along the younger man's finely-muscled chest before pressing his mouth to one nipple. He circles his tongue around the soft nub, delighting in the contrasts of texture. Will's intake of breath is sharp when Hannibal begins to suck, catching the morsel of flesh between his teeth and biting down. Not hard enough to break the skin, but with enough pressure to leave a bruise. Will gasps and his hands flop uselessly, trapped at his sides. He clutches at the bedsheets and his heartbeat thrums loudly, conducted to Hannibal through the clasp of his hands, the suction of his mouth. Hannibal pulls away to admire his work, the now-firm peak of Will's dark nipple ringed with the indentations of teeth, wet and shining with saliva.

"Hannibal, I want..." Will starts, biting his lip as he looks up at the other man, flushed and dark-eyed. "I need..."

He could want Hannibal to flip him over and fuck him hard into the mattress. He could just want to take a shower. In this moment, Hannibal doesn't really care what he wants. He gives a tiny shake of his head and returns his attention to Will's chest, tracing his topography and the scars that decorate his skin. He presses a kiss to the tiny, well-healed bullet scar on Will's left shoulder, then moves to the broad and jagged line of Dolarhyde's stab wound on his right. Above this, a white dimple, stretched and shiny, prominent despite Hannibal's diligent first-aid after Will was shot by Chiyoh's rifle. This too, he offers a lingering brush of lips. 

Will is obedient in his silence but he squirms, shifts his hips in entreaty. Hannibal releases his pinion grip to work on the buttons of Will's fly, peeling the jeans away from the fragrant heat between his legs. Over the indecent bulge in his boxer shorts, a damp patch spreads on the cotton fabric. When released with a swift downward tug on the waistband of the shorts, Will's already hard and throbbing cock juts from his body. Leaking a stream of pre-come onto his belly, into the soft thatch of his pubic hair. Transfixed by the sight and the overpowering perfume of Will's arousal, Hannibal closes his hand around the base of Will's erection and wraps his lips around the slick head. As Will pulls his knees up and parts his legs in invitation, Hannibal laps hungrily at the tip and swallows around the swollen red glans just to feel Will jerk beneath him, to hear the whimper that rises in his throat at the intensity of the sensation. Hannibal twists his hand ever so slightly to memorise the velvet-softness of the delicate skin, before diving in to bury his face between Will's thighs.

The stubble of Hannibal's cheeks scrubs against the tender white flesh between Will's legs as he noses around his groin, inhaling deeply of the animalistic musk. It is better than he had remembered, more exquisite than he could have imagined. There is nothing in Hannibal's experience that could compare, but he strives still to bottle this scent for posterity. As a young man, Hannibal walked the winding streets of the Alcaicería in Granada, and the depth of the remembered odours of the bazaar is the only thing that has ever come close to this intensity. A symphony of spices, indistinguishable and indescribable, a complete envelopment of his senses. But this, this is so much more. Will shifts beneath him but is pinned flat by the pressure of hands upon his hips. "No, Hannibal," he gasps, but the other man has long since vanished into a world of his own creation. 

This world is composed of a litany of Will.

Will, Will, Will. A mumbled prayer, a mantra. His heat, the sound of his rapid-beating heart. The taste of his lips, and the distinct flavour of pre-ejaculate. Finally, most importantly, this. The temple at which Hannibal kneels to worship, this rich and heady oasis. He swirls his tongue around Will's balls, revelling in the texture of the skin, the sparse and tickling hair. Delving beneath, he licks a broad stripe of wetness along Will's perineum, dragging down, down until the tip of his tongue makes contact with the pert, puckered hole.

Will's moan is low and throaty as Hannibal pulls his cheeks apart to enthusiastically explore. Twirling his tongue around the rim, thrusting inside the tight passage that drips wet with spit. Will grasps the long hair at the back of Hannibal's head, tugging firmly. The sounds that Hannibal makes are almost too much for Will to bear. The lewd and filthy slurps, the smacking of his lips as he plunders Will's ass with his tongue. Hannibal can see the effect that he is having on the other man as Will's balls draw up tight against his body and he starts writhing, mumbling obscenities.

Lathering his pointer finger and index fingers with spit he pushes them inside Will, returning the attentions of his lips and tongue to the younger man's heavy, twitching cock. He licks up the length with long strokes that are teasing and not quite enough to finish Will off. He is enjoying the sounds too much, the harsh panting as Will skirts close to the edge but doesn't yet fall. He doesn't know how long they have been here, but the sheets below them are already wet with mingled perspiration and saliva.

"Please, Hannibal." Will's voice is insistent. 

Perhaps it is pity, or perhaps his own eagerness to see Will disintegrate underneath him, but Hannibal relents. Hannibal slides his fingers deeper inside Will, rubbing around his prostate with swift pressure and a steady rhythm. Simultaneously, his mouth engulfs Will's cock and swallows him almost to the base. Hannibal groans around the girth, unable to breathe but uncaring. The vibration from Hannibal's utterance drives Will to the brink, and Hannibal pulls back swiftly, eager to catch the thick spurts of Will's release on his tongue. 

Will sighs deeply as Hannibal carefully disengages from him, mindful of the over-sensitivity that keeps him shaking even now. Will can see the movement of Hannibal's throat as he swallows every drop of come, a taste that he leans in to share with Will in a deep and tender kiss. Crawling up the bed, they lie together on top of the sheets - Will entirely bare, Hannibal still dressed but mussed and dishevelled in a way that makes Will smile.

"The passports are just about ready," Will offers conversationally, as Hannibal lazily winds dark curls around his fingers. For a moment, his words are indecipherable, pleasant gibberish. "I can pick them up tomorrow, book the tickets for Argentina."

Belatedly, Hannibal remembers the purpose of Will's excursion today. With a loud grunt of displeasure, he wraps his arm possessively around Will, pulling him close to his body.

"Fuck Argentina," Hannibal responds, the expletive rough on his tongue. "You're never leaving this house without me again."

"Ever."

**Author's Note:**

> *squeak* Hi there!
> 
> This is the first piece of full-on M/M porn I've ever written. Hope you like it. I really liked writing it. The idea was born during a brilliant, smutty little conversation on the Fannibal Book Club forums (so nice to find minds as filthy as mine) and I just had to drop everything and run with it.
> 
> Also should note that it's almost 3:30 in the morning right now, so I will no doubt find a million errors in this later on. 
> 
> I am however keen to post it now before I lose my nerve.
> 
> Hungry for comments, kudos, all of the above. If for any reason you should want to come say hi, you can find me at frankenberger.tumblr.com
> 
> Thanks my lovelies! <3


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